How cruel life can be.
One minute I'm roaring through training like the race is tomorrow and clocking most mileage and faster speeds and the next minute gallons of the white fluffy stuff arrives.
Now I'm a powder hound at heart so there's no surprises that as soon as there was more than an inch of the white-stuff in the back yard, I was on my skis to get to work. Sad thing is, I'd already run the day before and raced my bike the day before that. Sounding tuff? I wrecked my feet in my new boots and got blown to death trudging home through a blizzard so, there we are, exhausted. Three days to meet a deadline and they are the snowiest, fluffiest and today, sunniest days yet and I'm knackered, with sore feet and no ski wax and work to do.
I sneak a ski at lunchtime.
I might not sleep well tonight, my pent up excercise exhaustion is wearing thin. At least now, my work here is complete. I might take the cross bike to find some ski wax and sneak in a swim at Ponds forge tomorrow.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
A shocking commute.
I’ve been working 4 days a week in Gloucester for the last month in my tiresome day-job as an engineering manager. This weekend, with the impending threat of snow I headed up to Ilkley – not for the superb running opportunities but for a pre-arranged appointment for a ski touring boot fitting. The team at Backcountry UK did me a great service and I left with a pair of Dynafits that were needing testing. Needless to say I wasn’t prepared to get on a train to Gloucester this week when my skis, boots and all the snow was going to be at the opposite end of the country.
On Monday I ran to my normal place of work from Todwick to Whiston through a scattering of promising snow. 5 miles each way. As someone fairly new to running, this took it out of me a bit, particularly in the snow. I left switching my head torch on as long as possible but as I delved into the woodland footpath alongside the M1 junction 31, I needed the torchlight and revelled in just how much better it made me feel. Even more-so when an owl whirled its way through the branches right above my head. A crunch on a very frozen crunchy rice crispy cake just about got me through my front door at 6pm in time to see the next days snow start to fall.
Much to my glee it didn’t stop, although by now it wasn’t at the extent it would reach on Wednesday. Tuesday morning, as I attempted a sportsman’s rest (read lie-in) Andrew came and woke me up with the words, “It’s time to ski to work”. On the basis that last year I was just able to run 5km and just about able to ski that too, I concluded it was practical to ski-tour to work. I took me a substantial amount of time to set up my new boots in my skis, find a suitable pair of socks (which I failed to do), find all the outdoor gear I needed in the event of broken leg issues and put all the files I needed for work onto a data-stick instead of a “laptop” (read “knee-breaker”) computer so that I didn’t need to lug it up hill and down dale.
As I headed down the path with snow breaking over my feet, I realised that despite the lightweight articulated boots, my legs were still exhausted from running the day before. Still, a bit of rhythym and a whole bunch of enthusiasm got me 400m down the A57 and onto a much better bridlepath which was a little tricky to navigate where the farmer had “pisted” a run with his tractor tyres. I stuck to the central reservation where I was able to get a comfortable glide going. I was too excited about enjoying myself to worry about the niggling pain in my feet and hoped I'd adjust to the new boots. A few tweaks to the official path meant I skirted the edges of fields instead of un-snowed paths where the trees held most of the snow cover. In my silent schussing, a stoat carrying a vole for its breakfast didn’t notice me until we were only a metre apart then it scurried away in a flurry of paw-prints. Excitement subsided and starting to worry about the trip home, I delved into my rucsac to find some thicker socks but to no avail - I now remember leaving them on the stairs. Sadly, all of the downhill sections of my ski to work had insufficient cover for downhill skiing which involves cutting into the snow instead of smoothing over the top of it. Reluctantly, for fear of damaging my skis, I took them off and walked for 50m only to find the grade levelled out and my skis trundled along at a slow-enough pace to control the downhill into Ulley valley.
For 4 hours I stayed in work. One cautious eye on the briefly melting snow, the other on the cloudy skies and gradually, more falling flakes. I was the only person in the office encouraged by more snowfall. I was truly discouraged about the potential walk home, carrying my skis, looking – quite frankly – a bit of a prat on the edge of Rotherham with a pair of skis. By the time I’d walked across the molten car park and up Whiston Green, the snow was deep enough to ski on again and I traversed past the field of sledging kids, over the stationary M1 and across the Upper Whiston road from where I managed the two downhill turns of the day. By now the snow was up to 6 inches deep and well wind slabbed on the open fields.
The crossing at Ulley involved a chat with a girl who’d got her car stuck servicing her pony. She’d politely waited for me to ski out of her way in the morning so I owed her the courtesy of checking she was OK on my way home. After that, the headtorch came on again and I began to lose faith that my feet would not start to bleed from two great blisters that I could feel through the thicker (yet nylon) socks which one of my colleagues loaned me. A saner person would've asked for a lift home but me, I borrow socks. I concluded that adding a second pair of socks and putting the insoles back in the inner boots might not mean I had any blood flow to my feet but would stop any further rubbing and the consequential blood-loss. In the dark, I dug through my rucsac then removed one foot at a time from the boots, in agony in the snow, before forcing them back in – in further agony – and setting about a cereal bar to sate my hunger. Andrew got a very brief answer to the phone call question, “how are you doing” before he set off on his mamouth bike ride home from Sheffield city centre.
I munched on my cereal bar all the way along the tree-lined path now so thick with snow that it was perfectly skiable. Cutting across the farmer’s field at the motorway I only just made out my tracks from earlier in the day. The M1 was moving at around 5 miles an hour below me as I crossed the motorway bridge and reluctantly kicked off my skis where the diversion onto a footpath is the difference between a slithery staircase descent or a climb over a 9-foot tall gate where some possessive land owner can’t be bothered to grant walkers access to his precious lane. I was losing patience for the overly tight kissing gate that’s a real squeeze with a rucsac on whether you have boobs or not. Through the tussocky field where glide is out of thje question and back onto the lane where I discover I have no wax left on my skis. This makes them “snowball” – a phenomenon where the snow is just the right temperature to stick to ski bases and itself. It makes ski travel incredibly inefficient as the skis stop dead with every step and just turn into really heavy, cumbersome shoes. I curse under my breath as I realise not only is my wax not in my rucsac, it’s in town in a storage unit. Later I find out that this is also the temperature and consistency of snow that closes the A57.
I try clearing the skis of snow but it just builds up straight away so I walk through the farmyard where the snow is thin onto the path, hoping that the deeper snow is somehow less sticky as it’s less compressed. Not so. I push myself mentally and physically through the field with over a centimetre of snow stuck to the whole underside of my ski, knowing that at the house ahead is a Nissan hut I can use to remove my skis in comfort and add an extra layer as it’s now blizzard conditions. I can feel the wind tugging at the side of my rucsac and getting under the back panel to cool my spine. The only thing keeping me moving fast is the knowledge that the faster movement keeps my thinly gloved hands from freezing. If it weren’t for the hedge to my right, I could be lost - or at least need to get my compass out. Eventually I see the lights of the house and the A57 50m away. This is all that visibility is. I’m tempted to cut across the field to the back of my house half a mile away but don’t want to be caught – headtorch in the darkness, walking on my landlord’s crops – whatever is beneath the foot of snow. The Nissan hut feels like a warm, cosy living room by comparison to the exposure of the field. I calmly pull on another wool layer, thicker hat, second pair of thick gloves and arrange the headtorch on top of my hood so motorists can see the red light at the back. The skis come off, get de-snowed, hitched together in a comfortable carrying bundle and my new boots finally get to shine, their rubber hiking soles far superior to the solid plastic soles of downhill boots I’ve always been used to. I’m impressed no-one from the house comes to check what I’ve stolen from their garage. I suppose that if they noticed me through their cosy, orange glow dining room windows, they recognised my plight.
Up at the A57, motorists are beginning to queue which means there’s no spray from speeding lorries - hurray!. One driver winds down his window to ask if I’m alright, walking in a blizzard using my hand to protect my face – the one bit of safety kit I don’t have is snow goggles. I say I’m fine, that I only have half a mile to go. As he stops in the queue, I continue walking to my driveway where I pause to push some cars. I phone Andrew to let him know the state of the main road so he doesn’t get driven into by a slithering motorist. As we chat, he calls out to a passing driver, “no mate, I’m fine... just calling the girlfriend to let her know I’m still alive”. Later he’s offered a cup of tea. It’s taken him 2 hours to ride 10 miles. It’s taken me 2.5 hours to ski 5miles. Once indoors and stripped of snowy gear, boots wrenched with agony from feet and half a kilo of snow knocked from a bike we cook dinner using what’s in the cupboard and sit down to have a drink to still being alive at the end of an epic working day.
On Monday I ran to my normal place of work from Todwick to Whiston through a scattering of promising snow. 5 miles each way. As someone fairly new to running, this took it out of me a bit, particularly in the snow. I left switching my head torch on as long as possible but as I delved into the woodland footpath alongside the M1 junction 31, I needed the torchlight and revelled in just how much better it made me feel. Even more-so when an owl whirled its way through the branches right above my head. A crunch on a very frozen crunchy rice crispy cake just about got me through my front door at 6pm in time to see the next days snow start to fall.
Much to my glee it didn’t stop, although by now it wasn’t at the extent it would reach on Wednesday. Tuesday morning, as I attempted a sportsman’s rest (read lie-in) Andrew came and woke me up with the words, “It’s time to ski to work”. On the basis that last year I was just able to run 5km and just about able to ski that too, I concluded it was practical to ski-tour to work. I took me a substantial amount of time to set up my new boots in my skis, find a suitable pair of socks (which I failed to do), find all the outdoor gear I needed in the event of broken leg issues and put all the files I needed for work onto a data-stick instead of a “laptop” (read “knee-breaker”) computer so that I didn’t need to lug it up hill and down dale.
As I headed down the path with snow breaking over my feet, I realised that despite the lightweight articulated boots, my legs were still exhausted from running the day before. Still, a bit of rhythym and a whole bunch of enthusiasm got me 400m down the A57 and onto a much better bridlepath which was a little tricky to navigate where the farmer had “pisted” a run with his tractor tyres. I stuck to the central reservation where I was able to get a comfortable glide going. I was too excited about enjoying myself to worry about the niggling pain in my feet and hoped I'd adjust to the new boots. A few tweaks to the official path meant I skirted the edges of fields instead of un-snowed paths where the trees held most of the snow cover. In my silent schussing, a stoat carrying a vole for its breakfast didn’t notice me until we were only a metre apart then it scurried away in a flurry of paw-prints. Excitement subsided and starting to worry about the trip home, I delved into my rucsac to find some thicker socks but to no avail - I now remember leaving them on the stairs. Sadly, all of the downhill sections of my ski to work had insufficient cover for downhill skiing which involves cutting into the snow instead of smoothing over the top of it. Reluctantly, for fear of damaging my skis, I took them off and walked for 50m only to find the grade levelled out and my skis trundled along at a slow-enough pace to control the downhill into Ulley valley.
For 4 hours I stayed in work. One cautious eye on the briefly melting snow, the other on the cloudy skies and gradually, more falling flakes. I was the only person in the office encouraged by more snowfall. I was truly discouraged about the potential walk home, carrying my skis, looking – quite frankly – a bit of a prat on the edge of Rotherham with a pair of skis. By the time I’d walked across the molten car park and up Whiston Green, the snow was deep enough to ski on again and I traversed past the field of sledging kids, over the stationary M1 and across the Upper Whiston road from where I managed the two downhill turns of the day. By now the snow was up to 6 inches deep and well wind slabbed on the open fields.
The crossing at Ulley involved a chat with a girl who’d got her car stuck servicing her pony. She’d politely waited for me to ski out of her way in the morning so I owed her the courtesy of checking she was OK on my way home. After that, the headtorch came on again and I began to lose faith that my feet would not start to bleed from two great blisters that I could feel through the thicker (yet nylon) socks which one of my colleagues loaned me. A saner person would've asked for a lift home but me, I borrow socks. I concluded that adding a second pair of socks and putting the insoles back in the inner boots might not mean I had any blood flow to my feet but would stop any further rubbing and the consequential blood-loss. In the dark, I dug through my rucsac then removed one foot at a time from the boots, in agony in the snow, before forcing them back in – in further agony – and setting about a cereal bar to sate my hunger. Andrew got a very brief answer to the phone call question, “how are you doing” before he set off on his mamouth bike ride home from Sheffield city centre.
I munched on my cereal bar all the way along the tree-lined path now so thick with snow that it was perfectly skiable. Cutting across the farmer’s field at the motorway I only just made out my tracks from earlier in the day. The M1 was moving at around 5 miles an hour below me as I crossed the motorway bridge and reluctantly kicked off my skis where the diversion onto a footpath is the difference between a slithery staircase descent or a climb over a 9-foot tall gate where some possessive land owner can’t be bothered to grant walkers access to his precious lane. I was losing patience for the overly tight kissing gate that’s a real squeeze with a rucsac on whether you have boobs or not. Through the tussocky field where glide is out of thje question and back onto the lane where I discover I have no wax left on my skis. This makes them “snowball” – a phenomenon where the snow is just the right temperature to stick to ski bases and itself. It makes ski travel incredibly inefficient as the skis stop dead with every step and just turn into really heavy, cumbersome shoes. I curse under my breath as I realise not only is my wax not in my rucsac, it’s in town in a storage unit. Later I find out that this is also the temperature and consistency of snow that closes the A57.
I try clearing the skis of snow but it just builds up straight away so I walk through the farmyard where the snow is thin onto the path, hoping that the deeper snow is somehow less sticky as it’s less compressed. Not so. I push myself mentally and physically through the field with over a centimetre of snow stuck to the whole underside of my ski, knowing that at the house ahead is a Nissan hut I can use to remove my skis in comfort and add an extra layer as it’s now blizzard conditions. I can feel the wind tugging at the side of my rucsac and getting under the back panel to cool my spine. The only thing keeping me moving fast is the knowledge that the faster movement keeps my thinly gloved hands from freezing. If it weren’t for the hedge to my right, I could be lost - or at least need to get my compass out. Eventually I see the lights of the house and the A57 50m away. This is all that visibility is. I’m tempted to cut across the field to the back of my house half a mile away but don’t want to be caught – headtorch in the darkness, walking on my landlord’s crops – whatever is beneath the foot of snow. The Nissan hut feels like a warm, cosy living room by comparison to the exposure of the field. I calmly pull on another wool layer, thicker hat, second pair of thick gloves and arrange the headtorch on top of my hood so motorists can see the red light at the back. The skis come off, get de-snowed, hitched together in a comfortable carrying bundle and my new boots finally get to shine, their rubber hiking soles far superior to the solid plastic soles of downhill boots I’ve always been used to. I’m impressed no-one from the house comes to check what I’ve stolen from their garage. I suppose that if they noticed me through their cosy, orange glow dining room windows, they recognised my plight.
Up at the A57, motorists are beginning to queue which means there’s no spray from speeding lorries - hurray!. One driver winds down his window to ask if I’m alright, walking in a blizzard using my hand to protect my face – the one bit of safety kit I don’t have is snow goggles. I say I’m fine, that I only have half a mile to go. As he stops in the queue, I continue walking to my driveway where I pause to push some cars. I phone Andrew to let him know the state of the main road so he doesn’t get driven into by a slithering motorist. As we chat, he calls out to a passing driver, “no mate, I’m fine... just calling the girlfriend to let her know I’m still alive”. Later he’s offered a cup of tea. It’s taken him 2 hours to ride 10 miles. It’s taken me 2.5 hours to ski 5miles. Once indoors and stripped of snowy gear, boots wrenched with agony from feet and half a kilo of snow knocked from a bike we cook dinner using what’s in the cupboard and sit down to have a drink to still being alive at the end of an epic working day.
November 2010 stats
Running: 52.27km, 7.8km/hr, 1,217m el
Cycling: 295.85km, 17.2km/hr, 3,114m el
Swim: 6km 2.2km/hr avg.
Strength: 2h 56 min 46s
Walking & skiing: 24.59km + 17.47km
Progress in 2 disciplines. Not a surprising regression on the bike since most of my cyclo-crosses aren't recorded and the weather's a bit pooey for riding.
Cycling: 295.85km, 17.2km/hr, 3,114m el
Swim: 6km 2.2km/hr avg.
Strength: 2h 56 min 46s
Walking & skiing: 24.59km + 17.47km
Progress in 2 disciplines. Not a surprising regression on the bike since most of my cyclo-crosses aren't recorded and the weather's a bit pooey for riding.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Epiphany
Watched the Utraswim challenge on Sunday morning last weekend. Fascinating to see the length of time the elite swimmers keep their face in the water then how they transition to breathing every other breath when they are sighting their route.
I decided to give this a go on Wednesday, swimming 1000km taking a breath every 5th stroke instead of every 3rd. With a bit of practice and slower, calmer swimming I managed to churn out the 40 lengths without taking a break.
Wondering how fast I could go on 5-stroke breaths I proceded to do 10 sprint laps on 5-stroke breaths. I had to stop and get my breath back on every other lap as the lactic acid was starting to build up in my arms towards the end of the second lap but it did occurr to me that this is how "they" do it. "They" being all those women who swim the mile in half the time I do it.
Motivated by a quest to train harder, faster, smarter and actually feel some of that pain they talk of, as per the inspirational articles I have been reading at dinner every day I'm working away from home, my training may well take a turn for the better as I start to try out this different approach.
I decided to give this a go on Wednesday, swimming 1000km taking a breath every 5th stroke instead of every 3rd. With a bit of practice and slower, calmer swimming I managed to churn out the 40 lengths without taking a break.
Wondering how fast I could go on 5-stroke breaths I proceded to do 10 sprint laps on 5-stroke breaths. I had to stop and get my breath back on every other lap as the lactic acid was starting to build up in my arms towards the end of the second lap but it did occurr to me that this is how "they" do it. "They" being all those women who swim the mile in half the time I do it.
Motivated by a quest to train harder, faster, smarter and actually feel some of that pain they talk of, as per the inspirational articles I have been reading at dinner every day I'm working away from home, my training may well take a turn for the better as I start to try out this different approach.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Driven by waking up early, knowing that physicality is no limit, just my brain. I ran to the top of Birdlip hill before breakfast today on nothing but a cup of tea and a couple of oaty biscuits.
Plunging back into Gloucester above the twinkling lights and below the full moon, watching the fog rising off the distant Malverns. This is the why, the cold crisp morning.
50 lengths of the pool afterwards and I actually feel like triathlon training is starting to build up in a healthy and sustainable way instead of the permanent fatigue of years gone by.
I deserve a lie in tomorrow for sure
Plunging back into Gloucester above the twinkling lights and below the full moon, watching the fog rising off the distant Malverns. This is the why, the cold crisp morning.
50 lengths of the pool afterwards and I actually feel like triathlon training is starting to build up in a healthy and sustainable way instead of the permanent fatigue of years gone by.
I deserve a lie in tomorrow for sure
Friday, November 12, 2010
Dark Peak Fell Runners Champs
DPFR2010
Choosing my first race with the dark peak. Hardly wise to choose the club championships but hey, might as well show enthusiasm and willing. Besides, work location has meant the weekly warts runs have not been a goer for me.
The handicapped state of the race meant that I was one of the very early starters at 10:02 am with most of the field behind me including Lynn at 1010. I have to admit that I probably looked like a bit of a divvy at the startline with a rucsac on as everyone else was in the sunshine in minimal clothing and carrying a tiny bumbag. I was however aware of 2 things – I was going to be out longer than everyone else (potentially a lot longer if I hurt myself) and I was going to be running the Lake District Triathlons with all this kit so I might as well take it with me.
By the time the heather and bracken of the first slopes opened up ahead of me, the thretening fog that we’d driven through on the way to Glossop peeled back and I simply followed the lines of runners ahead of me at one minute intervals, relieved I could see that far.
Up on the moorland it felt a little uncomfortable following other people but the compass bearing felt about right. Someone was heading out to my right which did, in fact, look like a better route to the somewhat craggy one I had chosen. We walked / ran together for a bit then broke away from the path and the bog- hopping began. Usually when I am walking I hate bog hopping. Making my way around tussocky lumps of peaty mess. Puddles of mud that can suck in a person up to his waist and eat shoes whole or ruin a walking day by filling the boots with icy cold mud. Away from the bogs is tussocky heather which can twist an ankle or knee and somethimes the heather has more bog hiding under it.
I loved bog hopping in a fell race. Gauging depth of bog or the preference of bog over tussock became a game. Every so often I elevated myself out of a bog onto tussock to see where I was and finally the Wainstones of Bleaklow came into view. Everyone around me accellerated a little as the cloud cleared from around them.
Slightly worried about the people who’d lost their dog but seemed to know one of my team mates anyway, I started a descent to Wildboar Clough, Glossopside. The bog-hopping was really fun here as I used the slopes of the bog on my descent to turn and control my speed as if I were on skis. Finally the bog got me and stole my left shoe. Soon after I retied my laces, Lynn ran past – as did Kev and Tom apparently.
The runner I was with commented that others were now starting to pass us thick and fast. It was clear that despite starting 34 minutes behind me, most of the fast runenrs were going to catch me up.
Having descended as low as we could down Wildboar Clough, faced with nothing more than a fence and a steep drop-off / waterfall we climbed the fence only to find the marshall struggling to tie the lost dog to the fence. We informed him of the whereabouts of its owner and my temporary running partner stopped for a chat. I left the dog chewing through the marshall’s camera strap, its new temporary leash and struck out on my next compass bearing.
I found it astonishing that, given the group 100m to my right and the two runners 100m to my left, and the 10 acres of open moorland before me that one runners’ footprint in the bog fell in the line of my footfall on my bearing. I felt crowded yet strangely comforted.
We spilled over a styal and down to a fence. The only time I didn’t feel foolish for carrying a whole laminated map of the dark peak as I perched the front cover on the barbed wire and used the nap as a crotch-protector to scale something a little taller than my legs are long. Down a steep-sided corrie with runners tumbling by me.
With a bike race on Sunday, I took it easy. Next, striking out across the bog which oozed from the watery base of the corrie, a stream of runners led me out to the end of Long Gutter Edge, checkpoint 2 and the beginning of the most gruelling part of the day – a 200m scrabble down a steep, rocky heathery gully and 150m up the other near-vertical side. As my heart pounded in my mouth and my calf muscles screamed for mercy it occurred to me I’d been on less steep slopes in a harness and ropes before and it didn’t help that a rugby-ball sized rock, dislodged by one of the other runners, went skimming across the top of the heather beside me. I stood on a 4 ft tall boulder somewhere in the middle of the heather and watched the fast men go by – their wrists bleeding as they grabbed clumps of the spiny moorland undergrowth. I realised what the girls had been talking about when I over-heard, “You think you’ve cracked it and then it just goes up again”.
The terrain eased to one I could scramble across then it headed up vertically again and I regularly found myself taking 4ft high steops up to get out of a muddy pit or over a boulder.
Finally it was over and one last bit of heathery moorland led me across to checkpoint 4. Sadly this was the hardest bit of heathery moorland I had seen – partly, no mostly, down to my recent efforts on the 60 degree slope and partly due to it being on the later part of the race.
Although the outward appearance was more or less smooth, neatly sheared, common height of heathery blanket, beneath lay rocks, boulders, burms, boulders and bogs. Ankles were not safe and in my tired state I appeared to be drunk compared to everyone else with my arms flailing like windmill sails and my knees bolting left and right like masts of moored boats on a breezy day.
At the ruin I met my new club’s chairman who had re-injured his ankle and was up for limping home. My calfs were starting to cramp so I gave him some of my energy drink while I munched on an energy gel.
He was happy left to his own devices so I ran along watching most of the fast runners pass by. This became my demise when, approaching civilisation, I neglected to turn off a defined track between two wall down a hillside and over-shot the finish by about ¼ of a mile. Retracing my route was impractical so I looped around the roads near the finish and sneaked up on the timekeepers including TSK, asking, “Who ya waitin’ for?”
Lessons learned:
- print off a section of the map rather than carrying the whole thing with me.
- Buy a laminator
- Do lots of research – write the compass bearings on the map and check google satellite for features
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Using Stuff
The things I buy need to be used more often. I need to get over this habit of hoarding clothings for the next big event. I enjoy my public transport nomadic lifestyle where I have to sleep in my Patagonia base layer because its all I have left with me that's warm and comfy, I take exception to the idea of hauling jammies around in my paniers when all I'm going to do is sleep in them.
And tomorrow I might wear the top in the office because it's respectable enough and I paid enough for it that it should be worn.
On this theme this morning I used my travelling towel at swimming. It's been in cupboards for 2 years waiting for camping trips and river swimming but to no avail. As the chance of open water swimming is long gone, I realised, nay resolved, that I will use it and when my greatest fear is realised and the chlorine gets to it and it wears out, I can and will, buy another.
28 laps in 17 minutes (limited by the pool closing and not my poor performance - for once).
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